Shooting from the prone position at the U.S. National Biathlon Championships
(4 of 5)
FULL STOP
This maneuver inexplicably failed on the hill of lap four. As I came into the steep grade of the hill I stepped on my right foot and planted my right pole in the snow. Next I went to push with my right pole and step onto my left foot, thus moving myself forward. Instead of the expected motion forward, this reliable method of propelling myself on skis resulted in net zero progress. I've fallen down skiing countless times, I've stumbled, I've crumpled, I've flopped. I've jammed a pole into the snow between my skis and raked it up my crotch. I've explored just about every awkward motion possible while trying to ski, but up till today, I have never simply stopped moving forward, despite every muscle firing in the right sequence and straining to move me forward. After a surprised moment in this strange equilibrium I let out a wheezy grunt and gently slumped forward. From this position my body somehow found one last drop of adrenaline in my already taxed gland and it squirted into my bloodstream. With this as fuel, I managed to stand up and continued my lurching progress up the hill, but this breakdown upgraded the crisis from "serious" to "red alert".
THE END IS NEAR
So there I am. Stuck without an exit strategy, looking for the fourth time at the long sinister uphill that I know I have to do this time, and then once more, before I can take a right turn at the bottom of the hill and go toward the sign that says "Finish." (I don't consider crossing the finish line one lap short. I'd rather viewed as a quitter than as just plain dumb). If this were the last time up the hill, I know it would be different. The last time you have to do anything awful it usually goes pretty smoothly. We have an automatic "last time" circuit that kicks in and can get us over the hump most of the time. But this was the dreaded "second to last time," for which there is no magic brain circuitry or motto to get you through. It is just another trip up the hill, and if there have been several before this (in this case, three) then you are guaranteed to be pretty tired and running short on simplistic tricks from some sports psychology book.
I scramble through my four options again, and reject them all. Now hopelessly dazed, I enter the thick fog of the lower cerebellum, mindlessly repeating the physical motion of skiing. In situations like this, the reptile part of our brain takes the last instruction from the conscious mind and just goes with it until the heart stops beating. The rhythm of my skis on the snow is mesmerizing. I let go of any strategy, or any planning, or any long-term thoughts of any kind. There is just me and the hill and the sound of my skis.
Time stops.
The next thing I notice is that something has changed. I don't know what it is right away, but somewhere off in the fog a signal is coming through that there has been a development on the pain front. The early reports are confirmed, and I get a solid telex with the words, "sharp drop in pain level in legs and upper body, believe hill to be leveling out." My compromised IQ takes some time with this, and after a moment concludes that this development merits investigation. I take a look at some of the other readings coming in and also notice a slight increase in the oxygen supply to my brain. This increase in turn bumps of the efficiency of the whole system and I slowly start thinking again (albeit at a low level). Finally the visual cognition comes in with a signal and I can confirm decisively that I have crested the hill.
Wow.
This was not some kind of glorious transcendent moment of sport. It was not the gritty aging champion somehow finding a way to overcome the detriments of age for one more comeback. This was not a refusal to leave the game despite a crippling injury, nor was it a duel to the finish with an old nemesis. This was just slobber-mouthed, dull-brained, lactic-shocked, mouth-breathing, eyes-rolled, pray-to-God, stumble-forward, ears-back, nose-running, beyond-exhaustion, knock-kneed, autopilot maneuver that out of sheer luck resulted in topping the hill rather than waking up in the hospital. It was as heroic as falling down a flight of stairs or slamming your hand in a car door.
A pure fluke.
As I start down the descent, it slowly dawns on me that I'm home free. I've got some easy skiing, a shooting stop, and then it'll be my LAST LAP. My clever escape plan fades into the background, and I start thinking how I'll celebrate finishing. This reverses the negative cascade of thinking that has engulfed me for the last 10 minutes, and I start feeling positive and having fun. I don't shoot so well (hitting two out of five), but I have a much easier time on the last lap.
As soon as I'm across the line I feel elated. It is hard to believe that it is really over, and I wander around the finish area mingling with the other exhausted competitors in a happy daze. After half an hour I'm still feeling great, but my heart sinks when I see that the results are posted. I distinctly remember being passed many, many times during the race by folks going at absolute warp speed relative to my feeble plowing. I also distinctly remember — not — passing one single other skier. One thing that would ruin all this good feeling would be a dead last finish with a five-minute gap between me and the dude who was second to last (a distinct possibility considering that the only external reaction I received from anyone during the race was involuntary laughter). It would be tricky to spin that into a success, even with the considerable level of endorphins in my blood right now. When the moment of truth comes, I am pleasantly surprised. I have to follow the list up from the bottom several names (five) before I come to mine. Wow. I suppress a public victory whoop (I came in 40th! I came in 40th!) knowing that it would not be appropriate in the dead-serious atmosphere surrounding the results board. I save my reactions for later, quietly absorbing my place (and the places of my teammates) before moving off out of the hubbub. Later in the day I come back to the same board when nobody is around. The banners are still up and there is the echo of something dramatic still hanging in the air. I sit and listen to the wind in the lodgepole pines and have my own quiet, private moment of celebration.